London, In the Rain
by Craft Rose
Summary: It's been twenty years since the Battle of Hogwarts. Like clockwork, Draco returns to London on the anniversary of his parents' death, and finds Hermione Granger at the same cemetery, mourning the loss of her loved ones.


**A/N: "Silhouettes" by Of Monsters and Men**

It came down on him hard, the steadying realization that he was back.

Draco pushed through the gates of the cemetery, with his coat collar turned up and his hair in disarray, clinging to his neck and forehead in thin, blonde tendrils. It was raining rather hard; for the fifteenth consecutive night. Because of the downpour, it would certainly have made more sense to Apparate or to Floo, as opposed to walk the hourlong distance, but he found peace in walking through the rain. More than that, it was his tradition. If he didn't walk, he didn't suffer enough. If he didn't feel the cold, bullets of rain pierce his outerwear and seep through to the surface of his skin, he didn't suffer enough. Bearing that, he supposed it was less about peace and more about absolution. If he suffered enough, perhaps he would live a day without being reminded of what transpired twenty years ago.

Nothing was the same.

For several short months, he managed to convince himself otherwise and had gone so far as to marrying the youngest daughter of an old family friend. She was called Astoria Greengrass: vibrant, dark-haired beauty with as much bite as she had bark. To her credit, she stayed with him longer than he would ever have anticipated. But even she came to realize that he was not the same wizard over whom she had once fawned. His efforts to maintain their marriage were weak, and she deserved better.

The divorce was inevitable.

Last he heard: Astoria had remarried and resided somewhere in New York with her American husband and their newborn son. It brought him peace of mind, to know she found someone who was capable of loving her back. But that didn't change the fact that she would write to him now and then, asking about his life and telling him about hers, as though she were checking up on him, as though she somehow felt it was her duty to know he was okay, to know he wasn't locked up in his study with a bottle of liquor and an unfinished manuscript, to know he was making an effort to change his ways, as he had promised her he would try to do.

But even those letters turned few and far between.

No matter. She deserved more than to worry about him; more than to worry about a man who couldn't recall a single day in their marriage wherein he'd loved her.

Over the years, it seemed the emotion had become foreign to him. Sure, he enjoyed _the Beatles_, the smell of fresh parchment and the company of a woman, but did he love those things? Could he survive without those things? If those things vanished in a swirl of fire and smoke, would his universe crumble from the very foundation on top of which it was built?

Perhaps not.

Perhaps he hadn't loved a day, since Lucius and Narcissa had perished. Perhaps he never would.

Draco buried those thoughts deep in his subconscious and moved onward, finding his spot near the headstones that marked his parents' resting place. Their names were inscribed on black granite. _In Loving Memory of… _

_…Death Eaters_, he thought, bitterly.

If only the world had known them as more than that. If only they had allowed such a thing.

With his eyes closed, he offered his respects to them, to the countless others buried in the same grounds. It was no regular cemetery. It was one specifically created to memorialize the fallen souls of the Second Wizarding War. Years ago, when Potter proposed the idea of laying Lucius and Narcissa there to rest, the response was as horrible as Draco had imagined. Yes, his parents had jumped ship in the middle of battle and by doing so, helped Potter and the Order defeat Voldemort once and for all, but in the eyes of the public, they were still murderous criminals with no right to rest in the same soil as innocents.

Because of that, their headstones had been desecrated on numerous occasions, and a petition to remove them from the memorial ground had received more than three thousand signatures. But the reformed Ministry, as well as the Order, were adamant in allowing Lucius and Narcissa a place amongst heroes.

Only then, did a trickle of moisture escape his conviction. Blended with the rain, it rolled down the rigid contour of his bone structure and clung to his chin. There, he used one gloved hand to wipe his face and chin dry, and then combed his hair back. It was becoming increasingly difficult to see through the rain and the bangs of hair that hovered over his eyes. Either that, or the trickle of moisture was not alone. He ignored the thought and spared another moment, before turning on the soles of his cognac brown oxfords and leaving another piece of his soul behind.

In response, the rain poured harder, coming down with force he had never known, during his time in London. After the war, he had left the city, as well as the country, and moved across the English Channel, to Paris. During his short marriage, he had convinced Astoria to uproot _her_ life, instead of the other way around, holding hope that the fashion and the culture would occupy her mind, enough that he wouldn't have to. But there were some things that macarons and shopping sprees couldn't distract from.

Soon, his emptiness became her emptiness.

Knowing that, he hadn't pursued anyone after her. What those women wanted, he couldn't give. Instead of relationships, he sought relations. For the most part, it worked in making him feel something; be it sweet release or the warmth of another person. He didn't care. As long as he found his end, it didn't matter what her name was or what she did for a living. It mattered even less what she looked like. Not to mention her blood heritage.

What did matter, was making it back to his hotel in one piece. Draco shoved both hands in his pockets and walked against the winds, tilting his head down to combat the rain. But the moment he reached the front gate, there was movement to the left of his periphery. He turned, holding one hand above his eyes to shield them from the storm, and found another person in the cemetery. Distinctly female, judging by the shape of her silhouette. She looked neither short nor tall; neither rich nor poor; neither happy nor sad. Just _there_, with her back turned. It was difficult to make out anything beyond her height of approximately five feet and four inches, and the thin navy blue raincoat protecting her from the storm. But the longer his eyes lingered, the less blurred she became.

Draco breathed in, as though seeing clearly for the first time in years. Hermione Granger was there, roughly thirty paces from where he stood. If she turned around, for even a moment, she would have caught him looking at her.

Because that was what it felt like, after two decades of shedding the skin she had grown to know and loathe. He wasn't the same man. She wasn't the same woman. They were practically strangers.

It wouldn't have surprised him one bit, if she walked past him without batting an eye, failing to recognize the fair-haired wizard that had singlehandedly made her adolescent life a living hell. It wasn't unheard of to forget the look of one's former classmates, as an adult. Most times, he forgot what his own friends looked like. In fact, he would never have recognized Granger, had it not been for her curly head of hair; wild and chocolate-coloured and dampened by the rain.

She stood there, alone, limply holding an umbrella above her head. It did little to protect her from the rain, and another second later, the cheaply made barrier slid from her grasp and flew across the cemetery, carried by the winds. But she didn't seem to care or notice. Her attention was planted firmly on the headstone across from which she stood.

On instinct, Draco took hold of the umbrella as the wind blew it towards him and without another second to think, he walked across the grounds, against his better judgement, and held the umbrella over her head. In an instant, she turned.

"_Oh_, _heavens —_" Granger exclaimed, startled by the presence of another person. She looked at him; first the points of his cognac brown shoes, and then upward, beholding his tailored black suit and the trench coat over top, before catching sight of the cool, grey eyes staring back at her. In that single moment, her entire demeanour changed. "You." Consciously or not, she took a step backwards, away from him.

Only then, did he catch sight of the headstone behind her, and the inscription on it. Draco glanced back at her, with mingled shock and horror to fracture his wall of indifference.

_In Loving Memory of Ronald Weasley. _

"I'm…so sorry," he managed to say, surprised by the onslaught of anger that took over, in realizing the world had claimed the life of his former rival.

Granger stiffened, as though he had unearthed her most vulnerable secret. "I…I…" She tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. Standing there, looking at her, he noticed wisps of aging along the corners of her eyes and forehead. Still, she looked no more than someone in her mid-twenties. But the worried look on her face worked against that, painting lines of distress where they hadn't been before. Moments later, when enough time had passed for her to realize his condolences weren't meant in vain, she softened. Her attention fell to the granite headstone. "It was a long time ago," she finally said. "A lifetime."

Draco didn't push further, knowing the trio had all three become Aurors after the war. It appeared Ronald Weasley died some years later, in the line of duty, going by the inscription and the fact that he was buried with other brave souls.

"I should leave," Granger decided, hurriedly wiping the moisture from her eyes.

"No —" he interjected, at once. "I was on my way out. I just — I came here to give you, your umbrella back. Don't leave because of me."

She opened her mouth a little, taken aback by the latter end of his response.

Draco took the moment to hand her the umbrella, which fell from the loose hold and skidded away from them. He glanced back, following it with his eyes, before facing her, again. For an unyielding minute, they stood like that, across from one another, without speaking another word. In her eyes, he saw a mixture of starkly different emotions. She tried to read him, to see through the cracks of his defense and uncover the man underneath.

But her efforts came to no avail.

There was nothing to find. No mysteries to unearth.

With that, his attention fell to the ring on her left hand. "You're married," he said, neither surprised nor expectant. Just an observation. "Congratu —"

"I'm not married," Granger quickly inserted, glancing down with an illegible look in her eyes. "It's an engagement ring. I was supposed to marry him, before…" Her voice hitched. Tears filled her lower lash line. "I should really take it off."

Draco blinked, frozen and then frantically searching through his coat pockets for a handkerchief. Moments later, he found one and handed it to her. It was no use when she was already drenched, but she took hold of it nonetheless, offering him a look of thanks. Something about that brought warmth to his chest.

Now desperate to sustain that warmth, for reasons he couldn't yet comprehend, he displayed the ring on his right index finger. "I have one, too…" he explained, watching as her eyes found the silver and emerald heirloom. "It belonged to my father. He was supposed to give it to me on my twentieth birthday."

In an instant, Granger looked up at him, realization in her eyes. Her countenance was empathetic, despite everything for which his father had stood. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he assured her, meaning it. "My mother was the kind one."

"Do you have anything of hers?"Granger asked, before she could stop herself.

Draco nodded to the handkerchief. "You're holding it."

At once, she regarded him and then the handkerchief with widened eyes, before scanning the square of white silken fabric and locating the initials _NB _stitched to the bottom right corner. "Narcissa…"

"Black," he finished. "Her maiden name."

Granger exhaled, slowly. "Had I known it was hers, I would never have used it to — to — I'll have it dry-cleaned and delivered to you," she decided, catching his gaze.

"No need," Draco assured her. "It's yours now."

She gaped at him. "It belonged to your mother."

"Trust me, you've made more use out of it tonight than I have in twenty years."

Granger opened her mouth to counter his point, falling silent moments later. Her expression changed. "Twenty years," she repeated, dazed. "I can't believe it's been that long."

Draco shared her disposition. It seemed time had made adults out of them. With or without their consent, the world was constantly turning. Only then, did he come to recognize the feeling in his gut. It wasn't emptiness. It was vertigo. It was dark and light blending together, rotating around him, above him, and beneath him. For the past twenty years, he struggled to catch his balance.

Hermione Granger was no different.

Like him, she struggled. Like him, she found no balance, no _peace_ in a world that kept turning and taking. Going by the soft twists of grey in her hair, she was older than the witch he remembered from Hogwarts. But even then, with rain pouring down on them and storm clouds swirling in the sky above, he caught glimpses of the sharp-tongued, bright-eyed Gryffindor, as she had been.

Before the world took what was most important to her.

"How did it happen?" Draco found himself asking.

Granger exhaled, caught in the same whirlwind. She looked to the headstone. "It was twelve years ago," she explained, unperturbed by the rising winds. "We'd left on a mission in the north, to retrieve a witness. It was a routine pick-up." Her eyes closed. "I wasn't speaking to him. We'd argued the night before, about something or other." There was a quiver in her bottom lip, before she continued. "It was one of those arguments that started out small and then snowballed into something bigger." Just then, her attention drifted to the engagement ring. "For some reason it turned into an argument about the wedding, about whether we were ready. I — I _was _ready and I wanted him to know that, but I was being stubborn." Her chest rose and fell, as she remembered. It was written in her eyes; the pain, the loss, the guilt. "Turns out the information Kingsley received was false. We were ambushed at the pick-up grounds. One-by-one, armed enemies flooded in, blocking our exit and surrounding us. I — I sent an alert to the Auror Department, but it was too late. One minute, Ron was with me, blocking curses and shouting for me to flee, and the next minute — he was gone."

Draco listened, noting the rising tide in her eyes. "You saw it happen."

Granger tilted her head down, doing what little she could to hide the twist of her lips, as she lost control. "If — If I'd been focused, I could've stopped it. I _should've_ stopped it. If I —"

"Don't do that to yourself," he cut in, catching her gaze through the storm. "No one, not even you, can move mountains."

"I…" She blinked. "I've never told anyone before."

Draco held the silence an extra moment. "Why did you tell me?"

Granger looked up at him. "Because you weren't afraid to ask."

Before the minute was over, there was a decline in the storm. It settled to an even, moderate shower, bathing the cemetery and the surrounding roads in quietude. There was no wind. Just rain.

"I should get going," the witch broke through. " — before Edith has a fit."

"Edith?" Draco repeated.

Granger tucked some strands of hair behind her ear and straightened, gathering what little composure she could. "The babysitter," she answered, offhandedly. It took another moment, before she realized what she had said. Her attention fell to him in a sweep of uncertainty. She looked. "I — I have a son."

An unexpected silence took hold of him. Draco stared at her, blank and baffled at the same time. "A son," he echoed. "How old?"

"Seven in August," she answered, smiling faintly. "Time passes quickly, doesn't it? One minute he's a newborn baby, and the next minute he's swiping my copy of _Hogwarts, A History _and reading it back to front for the thirtieth time."

"Like mother, like son." Draco teased, falling into step with the brunette, moving with her to the front gate.

She laughed, fixing her eyes on him. "What about you? Any kids?"

"None that I know of, " he furthered, lightheartedly. "I _was_ married once."

"Oh?"

Draco nodded, hands in his pockets as they left the unplottable, hidden cemetery and continued their journey, along the glistening city streets. There weren't many passersby. Most people were tucked away in their homes, riding out the storm or already in bed. It wasn't terribly late, but late enough that Granger quickened her pace, itching to go home and be with her son.

He didn't blame her.

Had he any semblance of a family, he would have done the same.

Granger turned, about ten minutes later, coming to a slow stop in front of an old-fashioned town house. Judging by the location and the style, he figured it was on the higher end of the housing market.

"Well, this is home…" she indicated, facing him. "Thanks for walking with me."

Draco noted the sheen in her eyes, opening his mouth to say one thing, and then saying another. "I suppose this is farewell."

Somewhat crestfallen, she nodded. "I suppose so."

Before he could make sense of what had happened, Granger was on the topmost step, rummaging through her purse for the key. Seconds later, the front door was open and a pair of lightning fast footsteps raced to the foyer. Not a moment after that, she was embraced and smothered with kisses. '_Mummy, look what I learned to do!' _Followed closely by, '_Oh, my wonderful Hugo. It's past your bedtime, you know?'_ and then, _'Edith told me I could stay up and wait for you, as long as I tidied my room. I negated with her,'_ which was topped with, '_Negotiated, Hugo. The word is negotiated, and you, my dear son, are far too young to be swindling your babysitter.'_

It carried on like that for another moment, before Draco turned on his heel, with his head tilted down and the faintest smile on his lips. For whatever its worth, he was glad to know Granger had someone in her life. Hugo, was his name. Perhaps after the writer and human rights activist Victor Hugo. Perhaps she simply liked the sound.

Either way, his thoughts revolved around Granger as he continued along the side walk. Thankfully, the rain died down to a faint drizzle. But even that didn't erase the feelings swirling through his chest.

"_Draco!_"

Startled, he glanced back and found Granger at the front door. With both hands, she motioned him forth. He paused a moment, uncertain, before his legs made the decision for him. He walked back to the house and noticed she had changed out of her coat. Underneath, she had on casual clothes, consisting of jeans and a loose-fitted knit jumper.

"Glad you're here," she smiled. "Hugo and Edith have made a delicious blueberry pie, and there's plenty extra. You should come in and have a piece."

Draco raised both eyebrows. "Er, I wouldn't want to impose on —"

"Oh, stop being so antisocial and get your arse inside," she admonished, playfully but with a hint of seriousness. "Besides, who can turn down blueberry pie?"

With laughter tickling his lips, he met her at the door and followed her inside. It was soon after that, that he could quietly admit something to himself. Truth be told, he wasn't particularly fond of blueberry or pie, and certainly not a merger of the two. But it wasn't so much the pie that mattered, as it was the company. Draco looked to her now and then, smiling faintly, feeling a different kind of vertigo.

**The End**

**A/N: Thanks so much, for reading this story. It was a last minute idea, inspired by the song mentioned in beginning. Hope you liked it!**

**Cheers**

**xo.**

**Side-Note #1: Just for clarification, Hugo is _not _Ron's child. Ron died before Hugo was conceived. Although I do have someone in mind, as Hugo's biological father, I left him out of the story on purpose. Guesses are always welcome. **

**Side-Note #2: I've chosen "M" for the rating, due to heaviness surrounding loneliness and death, and Draco's implied string of one-night-stands. **


End file.
